


a keen scourge through the wintry air

by bereft_of_frogs



Series: part of our belongings (bad things happen bingo) [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: (errrr sort of vaguely medieval that is), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Violence, Corporal Punishment, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Restraints, Whipping, Whump, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25274293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereft_of_frogs/pseuds/bereft_of_frogs
Summary: Magic is strictly forbidden. That doesn't bother Loki so much.Until he gets caught.
Relationships: Loki & Thor (Marvel)
Series: part of our belongings (bad things happen bingo) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873021
Comments: 12
Kudos: 109
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	a keen scourge through the wintry air

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: graphic violence, blood, claustrophobia, crime and punishment
> 
> written for the Bad Things Happen Bingo square: Whipping
> 
> set in...a very vague Medieval-ish Fantasy AU. seriously. very vague. historical accuracy not present. worldbuilding very hollow.
> 
> Enjoy!

_“…but the greater part [of the crew] were breathlessly silent as the keen scourge hissed through the wintry air, and fell with a cutting, wiry sound upon the mark.”_

_\- Herman Melville, White Jacket, Chapter XXXIII: A Flogging_

On the morning Thor leaves for market, the air is cold enough that their breaths fog.

“I won’t be long,” he reassures. “Just a few days. Don’t chop all the wood without me.”

Loki smiles. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of robbing you of the _joy_ of hard work.” He leans against the doorframe. “I will get it started, as I promised. Take all the time in town you need. This will probably be the last good trip before the snows come and the roads get more difficult to traverse. We need more wax for candles, remember, and-”

“How could I forget? You’ve reminded me of our needs a thousand times.” Thor reaches out and presses his shoulder. “Truly though, I’ll just be a few days, promise. And I will mind your list.”

“You’re talking like I’m going to miss you.”

“I know well how lonely this house gets when you’re all alone.”

“I will be fine. As always.”

“And I know you _will_ miss me, brother, though you refuse to say otherwise.”

“Go.” Loki shoves at him. “Before you’ll be riding all night. Besides, I have a client waiting.”

“Ah, she’s back, is she?”

Loki nods. “Still having trouble getting her father to agree to the match, it seems. And she seems to have her heart set on it.”

“Be careful,” Thor drops his voice low. “Fortune telling is one thing, but if she asks for a spell…”

“It’s fine,” Loki whispers back. “I always take precautions, you know that. And we need the money.”

“We do,” he agrees. “Though you know I dislike that you must take such a risk…”

“It’s no different than when you go on long and dangerous adventures for the coin.”

Thor still looks a little uncertain. But he nods, kisses his brother on the cheek in farewell, and takes his leave. Thor drives the wagon down the road, drawing up the hood of his ragged scarlet cloak as he disappears down a bend in the road and is consumed by the trees.

Loki watches, the easygoing mask dropping to reveal a forlorn expression. What Thor said about the loneliness of the estate is true. The castle is chilly and cavernous when he is all alone. It is a great deal of upkeep as well, and it’s been years since they’ve had any help at all. Loki remembers a time when their parents were still alive, when they still ruled this quiet corner of the world, when the house was bustling and full of life. It is empty and crumbling now, with just Thor and Loki to haunt the halls. Since their parents - the last vestiges of regional power - died and the empire moved in and their titles became hollow at best, liabilities at worst, the whole estate had begun to fade. Now the townsfolk avoid them like they’re diseased, fearing that closer association would make them suspect. Or curse them to the same wasting that they are suffering.

So the brothers keep their quiet, lonely existence in the shell of their family’s ancestral home.

Loki sighs, turning away from the road to return inside, where the farmer’s daughter is patiently waiting in the kitchen, shifting nervously in her seat. She’s been in love with the farrier’s apprentice for at least a year now, but her father steadfastly refuses to approve the match.

“So,” Loki says as he enters. “You’d like your cards read again?” She nods eagerly.

The session lasts half an hour, and Loki is paid two silver pieces for his trouble, though he cannot give her any more answers than the last time she’d come to see him. Her future remains clouded to his vision, and the cards and runes are equally unhelpful. He spins enough that she is satisfied and then shows her the door.

“Master Loki?” she calls back when he’s almost shut the door. He opens it again and leans against the frame, patiently waiting for her to continue. She looks away for a moment, then back, brushing at her hair as the wind tugs it from her braids. “And if he cannot be convinced before Jacob must leave for the city? Is there nothing else you can do?” The wind picks up, howling like a warning. “I heard you helped Hilda when she demanded a divorce from her husband.”

“What you’re asking is for a spell,” Loki says. “Such things are forbidden by order of the high king. _All_ magic is strictly forbidden.”

“But you’ve done them before?” She squares her shoulders, tilts her head up in defiance.

“I may have,” he says with a quirk of his lips. He has, and once spent a month in a cell for it. He’d rather not repeat the experience. He has since become far better at keeping his craft secret. Outright stating what he’s done in the past is a terrible idea. “Try to get your aunt’s help first, and if that still does not work…I may have some recourse to recommend.”

She smiles and nods, starting down the hill with more confidence. When she is out of sight, Loki is alone on the grounds, as he will be for days. It’s peaceful, but lonely. He turns to go back inside.

His first afternoon alone Loki spends tidying. Thor is not the neatest housemate, and he takes advantage of the quiet to pick up the odds and ends around the house, especially in the wing that will be closed in the coming days. In the winters they shut up the majority of the big house, moving their bedrooms to the old servant’s quarters above the kitchen. It is easier to heat that way, and there’s little use for most of the stone building these days. He’s planning on starting this process while Thor is away, before the warmth really starts to leach out of the stone.

Loki takes special care to gather up his instruments for fortune telling, and a few other magical tools he has foolishly left lying around. He gathers them all up to take them down to his workroom under the kitchen, accessible only by a trapdoor set into the floor. His workroom is neat and cozy, with bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling and shelving along both walls for storage. Everything has it’s place, in a precise organization system that Thor frequently teases him about.

When he does, he notices an amulet missing from a box that had been in the hall by the kitchen. Loki frowns. It’s a talisman of protection, so perhaps Thor took it with him on his trip. It’s not out of the realm of possibility, though it’s not something Thor did often. More likely Loki will find it in the coming days, tucked behind a dresser or under the corner of a rug. He closes the box and places it back in its rightful place.

He cleans for the rest of the day, tiring himself out so he goes to bed early, falls asleep to the howling of the wind and the creaking of the house’s timbers.

The second day, once Loki’s sure of his solitude up on the hill, he starts working with magic.

The estate is held together by a number of charms and protective spells, many set into place by long-dead ancestors. His mother long ago taught him how to maintain them, how to renew their power at the changing of each season. In the soon-to-be-closed wing, he goes to each room, makes sure all the windows are properly sealed, then stands in the center and feels for the magical lay lines woven through the house. He strengthens and recharges them, makes sure they are all woven into a protective blanket within the walls of the estate. This work takes most of the day and when he’s finally finished, he’s exhausted. He eats a small dinner of bread and cheese and falls asleep on the top of the covers in his winter bedroom. The sun has not even set outside, but the expenditure of magic leaves him drained. Loki slips into a dreamless sleep and wakes up again only when the moon is high in the sky.

He lays for another moment on the bed, debating with himself. The moon is near full and the wind seems to have died down. A midnight walk sounds like just the thing. Loki smiles and rises out of bed.

He lights the lantern that hangs beside the door, throws a cloak over his shoulders, and heads out into the night.

Across the fields lies a small bit of untouched wood, with a clear path cut through it. On the other side, there is another flat plane of field, one that they allow to grow wild. Once Loki has cleared the trees, he lowers the lantern’s light and sets it on top of a flat stump. The moon is full enough to light his way from here. The mountains are ahead, the path leading towards their peaks, but Loki turns off the path and wades through the grass until he is at the exact center of the meadow. He takes off his cloak and folds it. The air’s chill works its way quickly into his bones, but he pays winter’s bite no mind.

Under the stars, Loki lies down flat on his back, feeling the blades of grass tickle at the skin of his neck. His spirit sings in his bones, trembling in anticipation. The full moon gazing down at him, he shuts his eyes and begins the working.

The spell flows from his lips, the words familiar and well practiced. As he chants in a low whisper, his spirit loosens from his body, slowly extracting itself from flesh to become pure magic.

If Loki were asked to describe the acute pleasure of freeing from his earthly body to roam as a spirit, he could only describe it as akin to the moment before orgasm, when every muscle in the body quivers together, tenses for a moment as he hovers on the edge, then his spirit releases. In his mortal body, his muscles go instantly limp. His heartbeat slows, his breathing slows, until he is scarcely breathing at all. His body sleeps like the dead, falling into a deep coma that no one would be able to awaken him from.

But his spirit flies, traveling to the peak of the mountain, to the villages, through the woods. He remains completely invisible to all around him except some extremely attune creatures who spook at his passage, and is able to travel great distances at the blink of an eye.

Tonight he spends a long time in the village, spying on the inhabitants as they ready for bed. He’s not even really trying to gather gossip, though over the years he has gleaned some nice tidbits from his wanderings. He just likes to pass by these scenes of quiet domesticity, to secretly share in their lives for a passing moment. Then he turns towards the dark, thick wood to the west and dives deep into his depths, where magic still runs wild and whose secrets he may never fully unravel.

Loki returns a few hours later, coming back into his body. He lies for a long time in the cold grass, listening to the sounds of the birds, the wind rustling in the trees, as he catches his breath and the magic fades. His joints are stiff when he tries to move. It takes a few minutes to gradually loosen up from his hours spend lying motionless in the grass. But eventually he staggers to his feet, wraps his cloak back around his shoulders, and stumbles home.

Back in his bedroom, Loki lights a small fire in the grate to warm up, though he smiles as he shivers, pleased with his journey.

For the first time in several weeks he feels complete, all magical cravings satisfied. His magic feels like a well-worked muscle, tired but satiated. To the crackling of the fire, he falls into a deep sleep and dreams of the past.

The third day dawns, and Loki wakes feeling pleasantly tired. His jaunt as a spirit left him aching but satisfied. It is a good day, dawning clear. The sun is even warm at his back as he does the morning chores.

It’s midmorning and he’s chopping wood in the backyard. The exertion leaves his shirt damp with sweat, sticking to his back as he wields the axe. He becomes consumed in the rhythmic nature of the work, the steady sound of the chopping axe like music. Like a drumbeat.

Loki is so consumed in his work that he does not notice the sound of hooves on the gravel road until they are almost all the way to the house. He stops, lifting his head.

There are quite a few horses, making their way up to the house. He feels a stab of nerves, before he calms himself, taking a steadying breath. He lodges the axe in the block, fixes his shirt, and goes to greet his guests.

The nerves return when he sees it is the village sheriff, joined by an imperial officer, by the look of the man’s clothes. Following are a pair of soldiers and a few of the sheriff’s part-time deputies. They’ve even brought along the blacksmith, a tall, broad shouldered man with rippling muscles a long blond beard. He is often called upon if there are fights to break up, or particularly unruly subjects to subdue. His presence can mean nothing good, the grave expression on his scarred face particularly worrying.

“Good morning,” Loki calls out as they approach. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit.”

“Good morning, master,” the sheriff bows back. “Is the landlord, your brother, at home?”

Loki thinks for a second about trying to lie, but thinks better of it. “He is not. He’s gone to market in the valley. Won’t be home for a few days.”

There’s still a little hope that the sheriff will perhaps look disappointed, perhaps say something like, ‘ah well, too bad, let’s try again,’ but that hope fails when his expression does not change. “No matter,” he says and Loki’s heart beats a little faster in his chest.

“So it is me you’ve come to see?” he says. They don’t answer. After glancing around at their cool expressions, Loki folds his arms over his chest. “May I ask the reason for your visit?”

It is the imperial officer who speaks. “We’ve had accusations of magic, my lord. Serious accusations.”

“That was a long time ago.” The wind tugs at Loki’s hair. “I served my sentence.”

“Yes, you served your sentence then, but I speak of _now_ , my lord.” The officer draws something from his pocket, a piece of metal on a string. It twists, glinting in the sunlight. “The young Tabitha was found with this artifact,” the sheriff says. “She has spoken against you.” The missing talisman. Loki hadn’t even thought to suspect her of stealing it, though he did only notice it missing after her visit. He should have known.

“Ah,” is all Loki can find to say. He glances at the grim faces of the visitors on their horses and knows the game is up.

“Her father found it and she confessed all,” the sheriff tells him.

“So one girl has testified against me,” Loki says angrily. “Will you not allow me to defend myself?”

The imperial officer shrugs. “You will be given a trial, of course. The judge is hearing cases now. But with a prior offense? It would have to be a very compelling argument. And I’m sure whatever lies you craft will collapse once we search the house.”

“Now, the question remains, will you submit quietly?” the sheriff asks. “Come now, Loki, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Loki scoffs. He glances at their escort, at the way the brutes flex their muscles. “As much as I would like to give your men a challenge, I suppose there’s no use to fighting, neither by words nor by force.”

“Very good,” the sheriff says. He makes a gesture towards the men.

Loki is made to stand with his hands on his head, feet apart. The blacksmith searches him, meaty hands all over his body. He, of course, has no weapons or anything at all on his person, since he was assuming he’d spent the whole day in the peace and quiet of his home.

“This is ridiculous,” Loki hisses. “I’ve no weapons.” He instinctively shies away from the blacksmith’s hand and it earns him a sharp strike to the hip.

Loki says nothing else, gritting his teeth against his anger. The imperial soldiers bring forth manacles, binding his hands tight behind his back. The guards go to join the search of the house, leaving him in the custody of the blacksmith, who still does not speak to him, but grasps his arm tightly, watched over by the imperial officer and the sheriff.

“I thought we’d gotten rid of the last witches in this province.” The officer shakes his head, looking down at Loki with a plain look of disgust. His horse shifts as he studies him. “I’ve always thought they were too soft. If I were the judge, I would sentence them much more harshly, to prevent this recidivism.”

“But you are not the judge-” Loki starts, but the blacksmith jerks him, fingers digging hard into his arm.

“Yes, but so many are turned away from the craft by the original scare,” the sheriff says. “Sometimes even a warning is enough to stop them. These old nobles can be stubborn, though, you know that. Even when they have no actual authority anymore, the arrogance remains.”

Loki’s cheeks burn. He bites down on the inside of his cheek and holds his head high.

“It’s not so bad here, you should have seen the aftermath of our conquest of the southern reach, the infighting caused by that accursed noble house-”

One of the soldiers returns. “Sir,” he says. “We’ve found it. The storeroom.”

Loki closes his eyes. Dread fills his heart. When he opens them again, the imperial officer is looking down at him with disgust but satisfaction.

“Well then,” he says with a smile. “I take you into formal custody now, Loki, son of Odin of the House of Bor. You are charged with witchcraft and possession of magical artifacts.”

The sheriff tosses a leather strap to the blacksmith. It is attached to a length of chain connected to his saddle. The blacksmith fastens it tight around Loki’s chest, the chain dangling off the front like a leash. He gags him with a thick roll of cloth, then puts a dark hood over his face to blind him.

Loki jumps when he feels a touch at his leg, but it is just more bonds, ankle shackles to hobble his gait. His heart beats hard in his chest, anxiety spiking again now that he cannot see. He had acted cold and aloof, but with his face hidden the veneer slides away. He instinctively tests his bonds. There is no give in them at all.

There is movement around him, voices, but they are dulled by the thick cloth of the hood. Then comes a tug at the chain, a sharp yank and he stumbles. The sheriff pulls him along, at a slow enough pace that he can keep his feet. They pull him down the road, their procession crawling along.

It takes a long time for them to make their meandering way to the jail in the town square. The road turns from gravel to cobblestones beneath his feet and the streets grow more crowded. Loki’s face burns with humiliation at the whispers that follow behind him. He is aching from the awkward, hobbled gait, and feels real fear. It is hard to breathe through the hood. The air he gets into his lungs is heavy and hot, the smell foul. By the time they arrive at the prison, Loki’s head is spinning and his breath comes in shallow gasps.

They stop at the jail but Loki still is made to stand, bound, as the soldiers take care of their horses. His muscles tremble with exhaustion. The shirt is plastered to his back with sweat. The sunlight heats the black hood, making it harder yet to breathe.

There are voices around him, people openly gossiping. Something hard and sharp strikes his shoulder, then a second object hits his head, following by the shrill sound of children’s laughter and the sound of small feet running away. Loki hunches over, bowing his head in case they return. The soldiers do nothing.

A few minutes later, the strap is undone from his chest and his arms are taken by two rough hands and he is dragged inside. The air shifts, turning cool but damp, as they carry him down a set of stairs into the subterranean prison.

The holding cells are little more than wooden booths, with benches and barred doors. Loki is shoved inside and roughly pushed to sit on the bench. Someone removes the hood. Loki gasps in a full breath through his nose, head spinning with relief at finally getting clean air. When he blinks his vision clear, he sees it was the old chief guard, a man in his 60s who had been the guard at the prison for Loki’s entire life, a man named Rob.

“In again, are we?” he says. “I thought it might be a matter of time before you’d reoffend. Witches always do, and you’d seemed the type.” His tone is casual, not disgusted like the imperial officer’s had been. And he is not unkind. Rob removes the gag and lets Loki take a long drink from a pale of lukewarm water, which tastes foul but eases some of the ache in his throat. “I’d take the chains off, but they’ll be calling you for trial within the hour. The judge is just seeing to another matter now.” Once Loki’s drank his fill, Rob steps out and shuts and locks the barred door behind him.

“They want this taken care of quickly.”

Rob shrugs. “They say the imperials want to return to the capital before the snows set in. And there are quotas, now, you know.”

Loki rolls his eyes. “Of course there are.”

“Your brother out of town?” the guard asks. Loki nods. “Bad timing. Though you’re not likely to be transported, not for a second offense, so I wouldn’t worry.”

Loki bites his lip. “Will you tell him? If that is the case? Where I’ve gone?”

The guard hesitates. “We’re not supposed to but…for old time’s sake. And your brother has helped me out of a few binds in the past.” Loki thinks to himself that in fact, _he_ had helped the old prison guard out of bind several years ago, but bringing up past spellwork does not seem like the wisest idea at the current moment. The way Rob glances at him guiltily does suggest his services have not been forgotten.

Loki settles in to wait. His body throbs, shoulders pulled tight and aching. He shifts to try and ease the pressure, but there is no relief. There are other prisoners in the cells at his sides. The imperials seem to be really rounded up as many offenders as they can in the final days of the court. Thor’s trip _was_ poorly timed, though his presence would not likely have changed anything. It might have in fact made things worse, because Thor would have tried to protect him and then would have been dragged here as well, for assault on representatives of the high king.

Despite knowing that, Loki still finds himself desperately wishing Thor was there. Like a child, running to his older brother for protection.

His mind reels, still shocked at how quickly his peaceful quiet had shattered. How rapidly he had been torn from the sanctuary of his home, and thrust into chaos and uncertainty. What happens if he is transported for this offense? Thor will return from the market to an empty house and a half-chopped pile of wood. Transportation sentences can be years long, made longer because the empire offers no assistance in getting home once a prisoner is released from the labor camps. They have to beg their way home, rely on the kindness of strangers, which is not so kind these days. Loki has never been separated from his brother for longer than the month he’d spent imprisoned for his first witchcraft offense. The thought of possibly being sent away for years ties his stomach in nervous knots.

He shuts his eyes, and lets his head fall back against the wall, trying to keep calm.

No more than an hour passes before they come for him.

The courtroom is located above the jail. The guards take Loki up the prisoner’s staircase, set into the center of the room. It is full of imperial officials, all talking over each other as Loki is dragged in, a soldier on either side of him, gripping his elbows tight.

The previous unfortunate convict is being brought out as he enters, still shouting. “Please, please, I swear I didn’t do anything, you have to believe me-”

His pleas fall on deaf ears as he is dragged bodily away, back down into the prison. Loki watches him go, mouth set in a firm line, then turns back to the judge.

“Two days of this.” The judge pinches the bridge of his nose. “Two more days of this and finally I will be free.” Which just means that any new cases brought forward will only languish in the freezing jail cells until spring, when the imperial courts return. Loki sets his jaw and says nothing. The soldiers bring him to the wooden box in the center, lock his shackles to the wooden bar and retreat.

“Make sure you get a confession out of Johansson. By any means necessary,” the judge remarks to a clerk, who nods and makes a note on his parchment. The judge finally turns his attention to Loki. “Loki Odinsson of the House Bor, you are accused for the second time of witchcraft, as witnessed by the daughter of Alfred the cattleman?”

“I can only say that the amulet presented by the witness was stolen from me. I did not present it to her, nor offer her any spells.” There had only been the implication of it. And it seems as though they not learned of any of the _other_ times he had illegally practiced magic, nor of the spirit-walking. Small blessings.

“Hm. But you still had it in your possession. As well as a number of other artifacts and herbs, all for the purpose of witchcraft!” The judge glowers down at him. He is clearly in a fowl mood, which does not bode well for Loki’s sentencing. He’d already resigned himself to a conviction, though was still reeling a bit from how quickly his day had turned to nightmare. But now there was only to see what fate awaited him.

“Yes. I will confess to the artifacts found in my house, and possessing the talisman before she stole it for me.”

“What was she doing in your house?”

Loki hesitates over the lie. The court bailiff strikes the witness box with his baton with a bang. Loki jerks, and answers quickly, “She was at my home for advice in convincing her father to approve her match.”

“You’ve left off a bit there, haven’t you?” Loki’s cheeks burn. The judge fixes him with an even stare. “We can continue this interrogation downstairs, with physical assistance, if you prefer-”

“She asked me to read her future. To guide her through foresight. She paid…she paid me two silver pieces in exchange.”

“Was this the first time?”

“No.”

“Hm. Do you know of any other witches in the village?”

“No,” Loki answers honestly.

“Who taught you your magic?”

“My mother. Before she died. Before it was illegal.” He swallows. “When she was still lady of this land.”

The reminder of his station does seem to soften the judge’s demeanor somewhat. He hums again and shuffles through his papers. “Well. Since you admit freely to your practice, and that the amulet was indeed yours, I of course must find you _guilty_ of the charges which have been brought upon you.” He sits back and strokes his beard. “For the sentencing, this is your second offense. The sentence for your first was…?”

“Thirty days local confinement,” the imperial officer who had arrested him supplies.

“Thirty days, yes. Thank you. The options for your second offense are twice your first sentence, or a corporal punishment of the law’s choosing.” He studies Loki for a long while. “Given your station, and the fact that winter approaches, I will be merciful. A night bound in the solitary pillory and twenty five lashes in the public square.”

Loki barks a laugh. “That is mercy?”

“Fifty lashes!” The judge shouts. “Speak again and I will reconsider. I could have you whipped _and_ confined for 60 days, you know. I could have you branded. I could have all your land stripped from you. I could turn you and your brother out to beg as wanderers in the wilds. Or will you take the fifty lashes?” Loki keeps his mouth firmly closed. “Good. The contents of your workroom have been burned. I feel the need to remind you that the punishments for a third offense will be more severe. If you offend again, I will sentence you to a hundred lashes, a week in the _public_ pillory, and transportation to the camps along the eastern border. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Loki chokes out through gritted teeth.

“Good. So are you sentenced. Take the prisoner away.”

Loki supposes things could have gone worse.

The soldiers escort him back into the prison, leading him down further staircases into the prison’s lowest level, where the only light is faint candles mounted on the walls. The air is close down here, cool and damp. They pass by the confinement cells where Loki had once spent a very miserable month in residence. The prisoners at that level taunt them as they pass. In the basement, there are other prisoners but Loki does not see them. Only hears their moaning, the sounds of their suffering. This is where confessions are extracted, though it seems that their work is paused for the time being. There are, at least, no screams.

The wooden pillory lies in a long, barred cell, a device of discomfort. He will be made to stand in a half-bent position through the night. It will not be pleasant, though it will be a far cry from the public pillory, which lies in the square for all to see. The townsfolk take it as their solemn duty to pelt the guilty with rotten food and stones, to come and laugh at their misfortune. Because of his former station and the crime for which he was convicted, the brutality would likely have been even worse. The folk like to keep their distance from disgraced nobles and witches, in case their bad luck and suspicion rubs off on them like a taint. Being both only makes him more hateful in the eyes of most of the villagers.

“Just one night, you’re fortunate, my lord,” Rob says as he enters, wiping his hands with a stained rag.

“Well, considering I originally intending on sleeping in my warm bed…”

The guard laughs. “You should have thought of that before you practiced the forbidden craft. Foolish mistake.” He claps his hands. “Let’s get this one ready.”

The soldiers help the guard prepare the pillory, the metal squeaking as it opens. They return take off the manacles, then make him remove his boots so his feet are bare on the cold stone. They keep their hands firmly on him as they push him onto the platform, make him bend at the waist and lay his neck and wrists in the appropriate slots. The wood is stained, Loki notices. Stained a dark brown, beneath where his wrist rests. He does not take his eyes off of it. Fixated by the stain, he doesn’t even flinch as Rob moves his hair out of the way and the heavy wooden plank is slotting neatly into place with an iron squeal.

The soldiers chat about their winter plans with Rob as they set the padlocks into place, locking him firmly in. The pillory is just tight enough to be uncomfortably close without constricting his breathing. One of them leans down and with rough hands forces his legs together. He coils a length of rough rope around his ankles, tying it tight. Loki tests it, and finds there is no give in the ropes. His feet are held together, throwing his balance off. And it will make it harder through the night to adjust his position, to find any relief. He gives a momentary, instinctive struggle, jerking once in his bonds, like an animal caught in a trap before his controls himself, heart pounding.

The soldiers and Rob entirely ignore his brief outburst.

“I hear that the weather there is quite nice,” Rob says. “Never visited myself of course, maybe if I am granted retirement before these bones are too old to travel.”

“You truly should, it is the most beautiful land,” the soldier says. “Ah, just a few more days in this cold mountain and I will be there with my beloved.”

Having finished their duties, they take their leave. “Good.” Rob says before he follows the soldiers out. “Get comfortable, my lord. It’s mid-afternoon now. I’ll return in the evening with some water.”

Then he leaves and Loki is alone in the faint, flickering candlelight.

At first he tries to stay still, to see how long he can last in one position before becoming uncomfortable. His legs are soon quivering, muscles twitching. He sweats, trying to breathe evenly, to breathe through the pain as his already tired muscles weaken. Then he tries to keep moving, to bend his legs for relief, to flex and roll his hips. Even if he bends his knees fully they do not reach the ground with his torso held by the pillory, so he suffices with half bends, keeping the movement going. It relieves some of the pressure. Not all, but enough for now.

 _At least it is just one night_ , Loki thinks to himself as he reflect back to the first time he had been imprisoned for witchcraft.

It had been a longer process then. He was caught on the outskirts of town and left in a holding cell for several days as the court was called into session. There wasn’t such a rush then, given that it was late spring and they were just beginning their summer session.

Then, Loki had still held hope that he might be freed once he was tried, but instead he was dragged before a judge and sentenced to thirty days in a cell. He wept when they handed down the sentence. He was young and frightened and didn’t truly understand why what he had done was wrong.

Neither his youth nor his tears had moved anyone. They had not even looked at him as they signed the order. He was brought to a cell on the second level where the other prisoners shouted and jeered at him. Loki was tossed bodily into the cell. The soldier laughed when he stumbled, then removed his shackles through the bars. The cell was just large enough for him to stand and lay flat, but little else. He could not raise his hands over his head. There was no window, only a small candle. There was no chamber pot, only straw. Both the straw and the candle were replaced once a day by a guard who also brought the day’s food rations, a hard piece of bread and thin gruel with a glass of lukewarm water.

Alone in the dark, he languished for thirty days, until at last they came to take him out. Loki remembers screaming when the light hit his eyes for the first time after so long in the darkness. He remembers cowering from it, throwing his arms up over his eyes and then soft fabric that smelt like home was thrown over him, hiding his eyes from the harsh sun. Arms wrapped around him, a familiar, comforting touch.

“Hush now,” Thor said as he started to cry. “I’ll take you home.” Thor carried him out of the prison and helped him into the saddle of his waiting horse, keeping the cloak drawn over his face to block the sun from his eyes. Thor mounted behind, kept a steady grip on him as they started their trek home.

Their father had still been alive then, though in his final illness. Thor spent a month caring for him alone with the nurse, and now had to care for Loki as well. He was sickly for a long time afterwards, unable to rise from bed for weeks. He was rail thin and most foods made him feel ill as they reintroduced more into his diet. His sight gradually returned, though it was a long time before he could bear to be outside on a sunny day.

Their father had died two months after Loki was released from prison. He had been barely coherent long before the end and passed into death one night with a whisper about seeing their mother and a long sigh.

They buried him in the family cemetery. Thor had to dig hard through the frozen ground. Loki stood watching, silent after his first suggestion to wait a few weeks for the thaw went completely ignored.

So he just stood in the cold, feeling entirely numb, and watched as his brother dug the grave.

A week after the burial, a delegation arrived from the empire, ostensibly to pay their respects. They rode up on a gray spring morning, led by the lord in charge of their province. Thor was bringing in more firewood when they came up the road. Loki heard the hooves on

“I am terribly sorry to hear of your father’s passing. I bring a letter from the high king,” he said as he dismounted. “Might I invite myself in for a spell? It was a long journey. I came up from the capital just today.”

Thor grunted his assent and they moved into the kitchen. Loki trailed warily behind, taking up a position against the wall as Thor and the lord settled at the table.

There followed some typical formalities, pleasantries and condolences, before the lord paused and shifted awkwardly. “I just wanted to make sure we were all clear,” the lord said. “Considering recent events.” He glanced up at Loki and Thor tensed.

“We understand our place,” Thor said. “And we wish to be left _alone_.”

“Certainly,” the lord inclined his head. “We respect your autonomy and privacy here. As long as there is no further…unpleasantness.”

The brothers said nothing.

“There will not be any unpleasantness, will there?” He looked straight at Loki when he says it.

“No,” Loki said. The word stuck in his throat.

But the lord nodded, satisfied. “Again, my condolences.” He rose and started out the door, towards the waiting soldiers, but then turned and called back with a condescending tone, “Good luck with the farm.”

They sat in a tense silence for a long time. When they were gone, Thor broke a window in his rage. In an instant, Loki fixed it with magic.

Thor said nothing about the spell, still catching his breath from the outburst.

“We cannot afford to replace the glass,” Loki said, then turned away before Thor could scold him. He returned to his room, curled up on his side in bed feeling numb.

Loki is jarred out of his reflections by the sound of a piercing wail from the neighboring cell. The man imprisoned beside him raves. A few minutes later there are footsteps and a little further away, more screaming starts. The courts must have finished hearing cases. Punishments have begun, and further interrogations. Loki shuts his eyes and tries to block it out. It’s hard when there’s nothing else to focus on. He tries to count his breaths, his heartbeats, but the sound of his fellow prisoners being tortured remains the only thing he can focus on as the afternoon wears on.

Rob returns at a time that he assumes must be evening, as he promised. Loki is in pain now but tries not to let it show. Rob offers him a basin of water and he takes it, letting the lukewarm water sooth his dry and aching throat. He is hungry as well, but no food is offered and he knows better to ask.

Loki is left again in the dark, left alone with his thudding heartbeat and the sounds of his neighbor screaming.

Rob returns again, but Loki knows it must be long before morning.

“It’s midnight, my lord. I just thought I’d check up on you,” he says. “I take my break at this time, thought you might be good company.”

Loki watches jealously as Rob pulls a stool from the side of the room and sits on it, taking an apple from his pocket. He’s jealous of the way that Rob can sit casually upon the stool, but not of the food. He is in too much discomfort, is too nauseous to be hungry anymore.

“I don’t know what made you think that.”

“Come now, master, you’re not screaming or cursing at me. You’ve been right cooperative.”

“I didn’t think there was a point to fighting it.” Loki twists his wrist, feeling the roughness of the wood grain against his skin.

“You’re right about that. These imperials mean business, lord. They have their quotas, after all.”

“Of course,” Loki says bitterly.

“Not that they’re not in the right,” Rob scrambles to say. “Magic’s no good, sir, it will only bring trouble. These may seem like harsh punishments, but they’re truly for the greater good.”

“You did not seem to think so five years ago.”

Rob’s face darkens. “It’s true. A mistake, I assure you, I considered it. You’re right, I should have turned you in then, for your own good.” Loki bitterly thinks that he said no such thing, but keeps his silence as Rob continues. “I was desperate, then. Our farm was withering, what with the flock dying and the ground spoiled. But I should have known better than to turn to magic.”

“Why _didn’t_ you turn me in?”

“Admittedly, it did feel wrong to do it after you’d helped me.

“Or were you just afraid that you’d get caught yourself?”

Rob laughs. “Perhaps that was part of it. Sure. You know, we’re not all perfect ourselves. We all have our flaws. That was a mistake I made a long time ago, it is in my past. I can’t turn away from the law now.”

 _Only when it is convenient_ , Loki wants to spit, but thinks better of it. He presses his mouth into a thin line.

Rob shakes his head. “You’re too young to remember what it was like. You think it’s be better, if magic weren’t outlawed, but I assure you, it wasn’t,” he shakes his head. “Swindlers, always passing through town selling spells that vanished as soon as they parted. Dueling sorcerers who would destroy whole towns. The empire may not be perfect, but it had it right, banning magic. It’s a danger, master, and I hope that this time you’ll see that you should turn from it for good.”

“If all sorcerers turned from magic for good, who would write the almanacs? Who would lay protective spells into the empire’s defenses?”

“I suppose, but the empire controls this far better…”

“And who would do all that for everyone else?” Loki lifts his head and twitches his lips into a smile. “Theoretically.”

“See, I know what you want. You want to go back to the old days. You don’t want to live in a crumbling and lonely house. You want to go back to lording over the rest of us, using magic as a toy.”

Loki doesn’t know what he wants. To be out of these bonds, for one. To live undisturbed on his land. And yes, perhaps if he really considered it, to go back to the days were people like him inspired fear and respect rather than revulsion and violence. He does want power.

Rob rubs at his beard, gaze growing distant. “Though, I suppose it wasn’t all bad.” His expression remains wistful for a moment. Then he shakes his head and the nostalgia vanishes. “Now, I do miss the potion masters, they really knew what they were doing.”

Rob launches into a story from his youth about a pretty traveller he’d met on the road and the potion she’d purchased in town, and the fun they’d had with this particular concoction. Loki finds it rather hard to concentrate on it, with the stabbing pains in his legs and ache in his neck. He drops his gaze, unable to keep holding his neck at that angle. As Rob talks, another discomfort grows even more pressing. The pressure in his bladder grows, the need to piss. He had been holding it back in the name of dignity for hours, since he felt the first prickle of need. He breathes through his nose and out his mouth, moving to try to ease the pressure a bit. The longer Rob talks, the greater his need is.

“You may relieve yourself, you know,” the guard says abruptly. “I see the way you’re shifting your weight from leg to leg.”

“And how do you know it is not just discomfort in the legs?” Loki rasps. “I’ve been standing like this for hours. I am in pain.”

Rob laughs. “I’ve been doing this a long time, boy, I know the difference very well, I assure you. There is no need to be embarrassed, no. We get all types, you know. There was one time…”

As the guard keeps talking, Loki tries to hold it in, but the ache in his bladder turns to sharp pain. His bladder releases, sending a stream of hot urine flooding into his pants. His face burns with humiliation but the relief is real.

“They all do it, I assure you,” the guard interrupts his own story to say. “It’s worse if they’re here for days, I assure you, they’re raving mad by the end of it, it’s truly unfortunate, but you know, this is the way…”

The smell of it hits his nose. His soaked pants stick to his thighs. He bites the inside of his cheek and curses the old guard for his incessant chatter.

Finally, Rob leaves him alone again. It must be a while after midnight now, though still a long way to go until noon when he will be freed. He tries to keep his calm. The man in the other cell quiets for a while, but then a crashing sound is heard from elsewhere in the prison and his screams start back up again.

In the last hours, Loki is reduced to numbness. His mind is elsewhere, or else fixated on every small bit of sensation, every stimulus he can find that is not pain. His legs tingle, all feeling in his feet gone. By the end, he is turning his wrists over and over in their restraints just to feel the woodgrain against his skin. He finds himself swaying in a steady pattern, rocking against the weight of the device. It’s almost like he’s in a trance, not able to sleep, but not fully awake either. His rocking makes the padlock on the pillory clank in time and he does it over and over again for the rest of his confinement.

The guards finally return. Rob and two new soldiers, chatting nonchalantly as they set objects on the floor and get out keys. It must be noon.

“Long day,” one soldier says. “The judge sentenced quite a few people to whipped, he seems to be fond of that punishment, he does. They’ve decided to do them all on one day. You’re fortunate, my lord, to only be locked up down here the one night. The fella next to you’s been here most of the week.” That must be the man who had been screaming most of the night. Loki things he would be screaming as well, if he had to spend any more time locked up like this in the damp darkness.

The guard releases him from the pillory and his knees buckle. Loki falls back, collapsing onto his backside, laying there nearly weeping with relief at finally being off his legs. He breathes hard, anticipating having to rise again but the soldiers offer him a small kindness and allow him to remain lying on his back as they rebind him. They remove the hateful tight rope from his ankles and replace them with the usual shackles. Their hands are almost gentle as they move his unresisting arms into place, cuffing his wrists together at his front this time. A leather collar with a metal loop is fitted around his neck and buckled snuggly.

“Come along,” Rob says. “It’s almost over now. And I’m sure you’ll be a little less quick to toss around your witchcraft, won’t you?” He claps Loki on the back like they’re friends, then delivers him back into the arms of the soldiers, who drag him out of the basement and into the daylight.

The light hits his eyes and hurts. He tosses up his hands to shield them from the sun as his eyes adjust.

A crowd has gathered in the square, chattering as they wait for the violent show. The soldiers lead Loki to a scaffold, one long bar with chains dangling from it, where two other prisoners are already waiting. The leather collar around his neck is attached to the dangling chain next in line. Three others are brought out behind him, similarly hooked to the chain by their leather collars.

They are made to stand in the sun while the officials assemble, lining up before the tripod. It’s another one of those sunny fall days, with a chill to the air but the sun is warm on his face. His eyes sting from the brightness of it. He has a hard time focusing his vision, the erected tripod in the center of the square a blur. Loki hears a man in the crowd calling out, selling hot tea from a cart.

The judge stands and makes a speech. A long one. About the glory of law and justice and the empire. He thanks the crowd for their hospitality and patience, and expresses his greatest desire to return to their humble village in the spring. As the speech goes on and on, Loki begins to fear that his legs will entirely give out after the night in the pillory, and he will collapse and hang himself from this accursed leather collar. He glances at the guards, wondering if they’d stop it if he did. He shifts from the balls of his feet to his heels trying to will his knees not to buckle and ignoring the aches.

The executioner - a man responsible for the implementation of all punishments, not just death - comes forward. He selects a prisoner at random from the six men.

“No, no, no-” the prisoner cries out as the executioner coldly unhooks him from the chain and drags him towards the tripod. The tripod itself is still out of focus from his long hours in the darkness. Loki can’t quite see what the executioner does, how he binds him.

The judge reads out the law and the sentence for the crime - a theft - and then motions for the executioner to begin. The whip whistles through the air and the thief shrieks as it strikes.

Loki feels a fluttering feeling of panic in his stomach. His vision starts to adjust, the image of the tripod coming more fully into focus. He can see now the splotches of blood, the streaked welts across the man’s back, and the black whip as it splits open the skin. The prisoner begs and writhes, trying to get away from the whip’s sting, but he is bound too tightly to the tripod to move very much at all. And even if he could, the executioner would find his mark. The man was obviously skilled, obviously experienced, bringing down the whip precisely each time, to paint the stripes of agony across the condemned’s back.

 _It’s just pain_ , Loki tells himself. _You have withstood pain before. You are strong enough to do this._ But still his heart pounds sickly as he watches the other prisoner scream and thrash as the whip cracks down on his back. He was only sentenced to twenty lashes.

Then it is Loki’s turn. He doesn’t fight, doesn’t weep or struggle when the executioner selects him, though he can feel tears start to prickle at the backs of his eyes. He suddenly, desperately wants his brother.

He lets none of it show on his face though. He keeps his expression cold and blank, and his head held high as the guards unhook the collar from the chain and take his arms. He walks as best he can, though the shackles are short and he stumbles and they drag him a few steps. The crowd has quieted, whispering now as he is brought to the whipping post.

The guards tear his shirt to bear his back. The cold air hits his skin as the fabric rips, as they pull the ruined garment down to his waist. His heart pounds sickly. He thinks he might vomit.

“Loki Odinsson has been convicted for the second time of unlawful use of magic, as ordered by the High king…” The judge reads out the law and the sentence in its entirety.

The dozens of people - many of whom he has known his whole life - stare and whisper as the judge reads the law and the sentence.

He has never felt so utterly alone.

The guards push him forward, until his knees hit the wooden crossbar of the tripod. The shackles are removed from his ankles.

“Spread your feet,” one orders and Loki complies. He will not embarrass himself by resisting, as the other man had. His feet are clamped in irons attached to each post, then the manacles attached to a chain and raised to that his feet are barely touching the ground. Instinctively, Loki tries to find some purchase, some way to put his weight on the ground, but his toes barely touch, and his ankles are securely bound by the iron. He forgets then, his resolve not to struggle. He tries to adjust to take some of the weight of his wrists and shoulders to relieve the discomfort. Panic takes him, that he is bound like this and half bare, struggling to find an easier position, trying to brace for the coming pain-

Then the whip cracks down. The first stroke hits like a line of fire from shoulder to hip. It takes him by surprise and he lets out a gasping sound, back arching instinctively. The second blow comes before he can gather his thoughts. By the fourth though, he has gritted his jaw, resolved not to scream.

By the tenth he thinks his teeth will break with how hard he is clenching them. Each blow burns.

Fifteen. He smells the coppery tang of blood, feels it running in rivulets down his back.

Twenty. He cannot hold back sounds now. He lets out a gasping moan, not yet a scream. At each stroke he draws in a sharp breath, body jerking.

Twenty five. Halfway. He is given a thirty second break between strokes, but Loki feels this is more punishment than mercy. He shakes uncontrollably, trying to shift to relieve the pain.

“Just get on with it,” he gasps out, voice ragged. “Just _get on with it!”_ He breathes hard, lungs pumping, trying to brace himself for the next blow. When it comes, he lets out his first true cry, a sharp howl at the shock of it striking down on his already ruined back.

Thirty. He doesn’t bother to hold back his cries, or his week struggles against the bonds. His whole body throbs, his back a plane of fire.

Thirty five. There is a commotion in the crowd, a momentary distraction that makes the executioner pause. Loki sobs, half in relief, half in frustration that he has stopped and this is not over. Tears drip down his nose. He no longer has the strength to hold up his head.

Forty. His whole body spasms with each stroke, little cries wrought out of him.

Forty five. He is losing focus. His whole world is narrowed to pain. Even his sight narrows, black spots closing in.

Fifty. The executioner pronounces his sentence fulfilled. Loki fights to catch his breath, still spread eagle on the tripod. It is over. Loki thought he would feel relief, but he can barely scrap his thoughts together to feel anything. They release his ankles first. His toes scrape the stone. The guard reaches up to release the manacles and when he does Loki falls, legs refusing to hold his weight-

\- - -

Thor wakes up in a warm bed, with sunlight streaming in through the windows. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, the fog of a slight hangover and the dregs of sleep disorienting him. But then he remembers that he is at the inn in the market town, half a day’s ride from home. He’d come for their final supply run before the roads closed, and had had _quite_ the evening. Thor grins at the memory, and even at the slight headache pulsing at his temples. Just proof of a good time had.

But it must come to an end. He finished the supply purchasing and settled a debt yesterday, and now he must head back up into the mountains before the weather turns. He dresses, packs his things and in the hallway nearly runs straight into Frida, the innkeeper’s sister, with whom he’d always had a playful flirtation and occasional affair.

“Leaving so soon?”

Thor stops. “It’s a long way. I’d like to be home before dark.”

“Ah, you’ll be home well before dark. It seems like you were trying to avoid someone.” Frida’s eyebrow raises.

“I was-”

“Kidding.” She smiles. “You could stay, you know. Or, rather, since I’m sure you’d be unwilling to leave your brother, you could come _back_ to stay.”

Thor chuckles. “This argument again. You try to convince me to stay every time.”

“I wouldn’t hold you to anything.” She holds up her hands. “That’s not what I’m after. I just know you’ll be holed up in that empty castle, and I know how provincial those villagers can be. People like you here, you’ll fit in.”

Thor smiles sadly. “I can’t leave the land.”

Frida leans against the wall. “And why not?”

He can’t explain it. Perhaps it’s just because he doesn’t know anything else. But he cannot imagine abandoning the house on the hill, with all its memories and ghosts.

“I will think about it,” he says. “Will that satisfy you?”

Frida smiles. “It will.”

Thor leaves Frida in the hall and goes down the back stairs to the courtyard. It’s still early, most residents of the town still in bed. The air has a chill to it. The new day smells crispy and fresh. Thor likes mornings, likes the quiet and peace of rising early.

He readies the horse and cart before going inside to purchase a light breakfast from the innkeeper, still bleary-eyed from the night before.

“Sure we can’t get you to stay a bit longer?”

“I’ve been too long already. And your sister tried to convince me of much the same.”

“Ah, it’s just that you’ve always been good company. One of the few who could keep Frida on her toes and drink the old man Henrik under the table to boot. We’re always sorry to see you go.”

“I must be on the road,” Thor says. “I’d rather be back early in the day. There’s work to be done before winter sets in.”

“Aye, and it will be upon us soon,” the innkeeper says. “The almanacs predict a hard and long one this year. The high king sent a message from the forecasters to warn of an early frost.”

Thor nods. “And you see why I’d like to be back early.”

“Ah, you’re always welcome back, my lord.” He waves him off. “Safe traveling.”

Thor sets off on the road that winds through the mountains. He leaves the town sleeping, most not yet recovered from the activities of the previous evening. He meets no one on the road after the town gatekeeper, who merely tiredly tips his hat to Thor as he passes.

The way is peaceful. The road is smooth and even. The early morning chill soon eases. Thor is warmed by the diffuse light filtering through the trees. He eats a light lunch under the branches of a massive oak that marks the halfway point of the trip.

The journey goes quickly and because he left so early he spies the house rising above the trees. Thor smiles. As much as he enjoyed his visits to the town, he always felt relief at returning. This place, for all its faults, was a sanctuary. It was a place that had always been a refuge for when the rest of the world had become too chaotic to comprehend. A pocket of peace in the roiling world.

Thor approaches home in a good mood, whistling as he drives the horse towards the stable.

He hops off the cart and turns towards the house. It looks just as it had when he left it. But something seems strange.

What is strange is that the house is equally as silent and still as the road had been. Loki usually comes to help unload the cart and make snide remarks about where he had deviated from the list.

Thor frowns. “Loki?”

Only the sound of distant birds calling. Something is wrong. Thor has no real reason to think that, but knows that the estate feels empty. Hollow. Even if it was never as bustling and full of life as it had been in his childhood, this still felt different. A more complete isolation.

“Loki?” Thor calls out, growing apprehensive. There is no answer, only the sound of the wind rustling the falling leaves. He rounds the corner and stops when he spies the axe sticking out of the chopping block, the wood only half chopped, and what was finished not stacked. It looks like the work was interrupted. Loki not finishing was expected, but leaving the completed ones lying about the yard like that was. His brother could be _slightly_ lazy, but he was neat, and the disorder in the yard would have driven him mad. There is still no sign of him, though.

 _Perhaps he went inside for a drink of water_ , Thor thinks, still frowning. He turns towards the house, unable to shake his sense that something is wrong.

The front door is ajar.

Nailed to the wood there is a piece of paper, weathered and fluttering in the breeze. Thor sees the imperial seal and grabs it, tearing it from the nail. The words on it are scrawled and smudged from exposure, but Thor can make out the contents. A formal notice of conviction.

His heart stops. The sick feeling in his chest drops to his stomach. He can barely read the words before him, barely process their meaning, but it finally sinks in. Thor glances up at the position of the sun. High in the sky, angling towards the west. Possibly too late.

There is no time to unhitch the horse from the cart, and she won’t move fast enough with it, especially weighted down by all the goods, so Thor runs. He runs down the mountain as fast as he can without tripping in the uneven roadway.

He doesn’t even really know what he’s planning on doing if he does make it on time. Stopping it is extremely unlikely, though he longs to. If he cannot, he will at least be there as witness, as sympathy, as support - something. And if he is too late, well, Loki will need someone to care for him in the aftermath. The posting did not say how many lashes were prescribed. Thor doesn’t want to think about it.

He runs, sprints until his lungs burn, all the way down the mountain, through the empty streets of the town. None of the citizens are home. They’ve all been summoned to the square by the posting.

The crowd is animated, chatty, when Thor arrives, dripping sweat and out of breath. They seem to be having a lovely late Fall day, though Thor can hear the whip whistling through the air. He begins to shove his way through the people and notes how silence spreads in his wake. When he gets close enough, he can see the looming tripod mounted in the square, a red spray as the whip cracks down, and a bowed head of familiar dark hair.

Thor lunges and he’s caught by several soldiers

“Best not,” one of the local men says, with a pointed look. “It’ll be over in a minute, my lord. Best just let them finish and it will be over.”

Thor tosses off the soldiers’ grip on him, but nods, ceasing his efforts to break through their ranks. He says nothing, not trusting his tongue.

His entrance and the outburst has caused the executioner to falter in the administration of his strokes. Loki hangs limp in his chains, making a horrible, ragged sound in his throat, heaving in air to sob.

The executioner turns back and lets the whip swing again through the air. When it strikes down, opening up a new line of scarlet, Loki jerks and lets out a small cry. Thor jolts like he himself has been struck.

The executioner keeps up a steady pace. Once the soldiers see that Thor isn’t about to charge again, they release him, but stay close by. Thor does not take his eyes off his brother as the final strokes are administered.

Thor hears the blood roaring in his ears, fury like he’s never known before. He hates every single one of them, hates every villager and nobleman and soldier. Rage, bloodlust like he’s never known before, fills him, makes his face feel hot. A frightening feeling, that he would kill them all if he had the power to. He forces himself to stand stock straight, not moving except the slightest tremor in his limbs from holding himself together.

And just like that, it is over. The fiftieth stroke - _fifty, good gods **fifty**_ \- is called out, and the executioner lets the whip fall to his side. He nods to the guards and turns his back, already going to select the next victim from the line of bound and leashed prisoners.

The soldiers break and let Thor through. He nearly stumbles in his haste. He makes it to Loki just as the guards release the restraints and he collapses to the ground, legs not strong enough to hold him. Thor catches him before he hits the ground.

Loki is breathing loudly, wetly. He moans, breath hitching. His skin is hot against Thor’s. He twitches weakly, almost like he’s fighting to get away but doesn’t have the strength.

“Brother?” Thor says gently. He lowers him gently the rest of the way to the ground and touches Loki’s cheek, splattered with blood.

Loki turns up his face and his glazed eyes focus on Thor’s face. His brow knits together. “Thor…you’re…here? _How?”_

“I’m here. It’s all right. I’ll take you home now.” He had said something similar, when he had taken Loki from prison the first time.

Loki only moans in response, dropping his head down. Thor takes off his cloak, keenly aware of every eye on him.

“This will hurt, and I’m sorry,” he whispers as he draws it over Loki’s shoulders to cover his ruined back. Loki yelps in pain, a sound that travels straight to Thor’s heart, making him wince with sympathy. He glances up at the judge, who looks impatient with the delay. “We have to go. Can you hold on to me? Can you grasp my neck?” Loki manages to nod. He’s shaking hard now. Thor manages to maneuver him so that he can reach up and weakly wrap his arms around Thor’s neck. Thor puts his hands under his thighs and lifts him up, staggering to his feet. Loki gasps in his ear.

“Shh, it’s all right. I’ll take you home now.”

“I’m sorry,” Loki says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It _isn’t_.” He fears being overheard too much to continue, but a well of furious words builds in his chest. Later will be the time for rage, but first he has to get his brother to safety.

The crowd parts for him silently as he carries his brother towards the road home.

Halfway up the hill his arms are nearly shaking. Loki’s grip on his neck is slipping. Thor is trying to hold on, but he won’t stop moving, jolting in pain at every brush of the cloak against his back. Thor cannot fault Loki for his writhing, he knows he is holding as still as he can, but it makes Thor’s grip on him precarious.

“We have to stop, just for a moment,” Thor whispers. “Just a moment.”

There’s a rock, tall enough that Loki can sit. Thor lowers him down gently, but keeps a steady hand on his arm to keep him upright.

“It was the girl,” Loki groans. “You were right. She stole a talisman off of me. Got caught with it, told them I’d given it to her and offered her spellcraft to save her own skin. With a prior offense, there was nothing I could say to convince them. The trial lasted five minutes.” Loki’s breath hitches. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for. Nothing. I’m sorry I could not have come sooner.”

“Wouldn’t have changed anything. Would have happened either way.” Loki turns his green gaze towards Thor. His eyes are glassy, slipping in and out of focus. “We have no power here.”

Thor frowns. He thinks of what the innkeeper had said. “Maybe not. But we’ll be home soon. We’ll be home and safe, I promise.”

Loki wavers. “I think…I might faint now.”

Thor nods. “I’ll take you home. You’re safe with me.” There is no further encouragement needed. Loki’s eyes roll back in his head and he collapses forward in a dead faint.

His unconsciousness may prove to be a blessing. It will certainly make him easier to carry, and spare him some pain. Thor lets him fall forwards, catching his weight and heaving his body over his shoulder. He keeps an arm firm against the back of his legs, making sure his weight is evenly balancing.

Loki slung over his shoulder like slaughtered game, Thor treks the rest of the way back up the hill to home. The house is just as he left it, with the note pinned to the door.

Thor carries his brother up to his bedroom and carefully lays him on the bed, flat on his stomach. Loki does not stir, breathing shallowly. Thor takes a minute to catch his breath, brushing aside Loki’s hair to look at his face. His expression is slack, pale cheek splattered with blood.

 _You should not have left him alone,_ a shaming voice whispers in his ear. _See what happens?_

Thor shoves the voice aside and begins to care for his brother.

He goes and heats a great deal of water in the hearth, almost an entire barrel of their stored water. He gathers cloth and bandages. Thor nearly forgets himself then and starts down the hidden staircase to gather healing herbs - only to remember at the last moment that they are all gone, burned up in the bonfire outside. They have nothing, not even what would be permitted under the ban.

Thor has to peel the cloak away from his back. It sticks in some places, and has to be eased off with water. Loki remains unconscious, breathing shallowly.

“Oh, brother,” Thor whispers. “What have they done?”

His back is crossed with welts, with split wounds that still bleed. Some of the widest ones will probably need stitches, though Thor will cross that bridge when he comes to it. First he has to clean off the worst of the grime and tacky blood. He gathers the rags and fetches the water from the fire, switching it with another pot to boil.

Loki wakes, suddenly tensing and hissing in pain. He turns his head towards Thor, green eyes glassy.

“Sorry,” Thor says quietly. “I’d hoped you’d sleep through the worst of it.”

“’s alright,” Loki rasps. “I - ah!” Thor shushes him softly. “How did you know to come back?”

“I didn’t,” Thor says. “It was luck.” And how close he’d been to missing it. He wonders what they would have done in his absence. With the disdain the villagers hold for them, it was not likely that anyone else would come forward to care for him. They would have left him to bleed in the street. If they were feeling particularly merciful, they might have dragged him back here to care for himself alone.

Thor has to stop his work cleaning the wounds, overwhelmed by anxiety. He smooths back Loki’s dark hair and rests his forehead against his temple.

“I’ll never leave you again,” Thor whispers. “Never.”

Loki’s skin already burns with fever, spots of red coloring his cheeks. He gasps a ragged breath in and shudders. “Normally, I’d tell you that you were being foolish. But for now…I can think of no argument against it.” He reaches out with one hand, seeking Thor’s. Thor takes it, cradling it between his own for a minute. Then he kisses the knuckles, still splattered with drying blood, and lets it drop.

The water has cooled enough to be touched. Thor soaks the rag in it and begins the methodical work of cleaning the dirt and dust from the layered welts on his back.

Loki tries to stay as still as he can, gripping the sheets hard. When Thor stops, his muscles go limp, and he collapses to the mattress with a shuddering sigh.

Thor frowns as he studies the mess of Loki’s back. Several of the slices are stretched wide, split open and still leaking blood. Loki may seem relieved now, but this will turn out to be only a brief reprieve.

“I’ll need to stitch some of these up.”

Loki tries not to let it show on his face, but the color drains from his cheek. “Oh.” His lips press into a firm line.

“You’ll need to hold still, I can-”

 _“Don’t bind me!”_ Loki suddenly snaps. Thor shushes him and stokes his hair soothingly. “Please. Don’t.”

“I won’t, brother. You _have_ to stay still. I can fetch you what spirits we have left, but it’s not much…”

Loki nods. “It’s just…I do not wish to be bound. I can hold still. Perhaps,” Loki wets his lips. “Something to bite down on. So I don’t scream.”

Thor nods. “I’ll be back.”

He finds the strongest spirits they have, a length of cotton cord, and a needle. He finds a spare bit of leather that he can fold over for Loki to bite down on. Thor has no doubt he will scream. It would be unnatural if he didn’t. Just before he goes back into the room, he stops to take a deep breath, to prepare himself. He almost wishes he could feel the bitter rage that he had felt standing before those soldiers in the square. The bloodlust, the fury. But instead he’s just scared, and heartsick.

Thor helps Loki take a few long drinks from the bottle. He winces at the bitter taste, and nods when he can hold down more. They wait a few minutes, while his wounds still sluggishly leak blood. A few more swigs of the liquor, and Loki’s gaze is foggy.

“Do it,” he says and the words slur a bit.

He does hold still, holding back his writhing by force, though his muscles are taut, tendons in his neck sticking out with the force of it. Sweat beads at his skin. His fists clench down on the blankets tight. Thor does his best to make it quick, though his own hands are shaking and it slows his progress. And Loki does scream. He holds off for several minutes, minutes where he does not seem to breathe at all, and then a sharp moan bursts out of him. Another. Muffled by the gag, the miserable sounds still travel straight to Thor’s heart, stab into him like the needle was passing through his own skin.

Before the sun begins to set, Thor is finished. The two largest gashes are stitched together to heal.

“That’s it,” Thor says. “It’s finished.” All the tension leaves Loki’s body in an instant. His muscles go limp and he breathes hard through his nose. Thor wipes off the last of the blood and has Loki sit up so he can loosely wrap bandages around his torso. Sitting up is difficult and he wavers, having to brace himself on Thor’s shoulders. When the bandages are secured, Thor helps him out of his ruined clothes. There are welts around his ankles that also need to be cleaned and then, hours after Thor carried Loki from the square, Loki can rest.

Thor fetches clean blankets and draws them up, then briefly leaves to tend to the horse. He stashes the cart of winter goods in the barn, to be dealt with in the morning, feeds the horse, and returns to Loki’s room.

Thor sits beside him, pulling his head into his lap. He strokes back Loki's dark hair. Loki dozes, hovering just on the edge of unconsciousness.

“Should we leave?” Thor says suddenly. He keeps up his even stroking of his brother’s hair.

“Leave?” Loki rasps. “Where would we go?”

“I don’t know. Away from this place. Somewhere that might be less suspicious of us, where we could live out normal lives without fear.”

Loki’s brow furrows. He shakes his head. “I do not wish to go. I do not wish to leave home.”

“All right. We’ll talk about it later.” Loki is fast fading, eyes drifting shut. “Sleep now, brother.” It doesn’t take much more of a push before Loki is unconscious again, breathing shallowly but evenly. Thor is left alone in the semi-darkness, hand in his brother’s hair, listening to him breathe and to the wind outside.

It is a hard winter.

Loki develops a fever and spends days locked in the grip of delirium. He fights Thor when he tries to change the bandages, clawing at his skin. Thor is reluctant to bind him, remembering how panicked he had sounded at the thought of it, but doesn’t know what else to do. He eventually has to turn to others for aid, riding to a neighbor’s to see if they had any herbs or drugs to help. They have a sleeping concoction and sell it to him for what Thor’s sure is nearly twice the market value. It doesn’t matter. He pays the price and uses it sparingly, to keep his brother under why he cleans and re-wraps his wounds.

His fever finally breaks, leaving him drenched in sweat and trembling.

Loki can barely stand for weeks, walking more than a few stumbling steps all but impossible. Thor is left the majority of the work of finishing the preparations for the winter and managing the estate on his own. He keeps them alive through the long, dark season.

The snows set in, blanketing the countryside and essentially both leaving them stranded and surrounding them with a blanket of protection. While they cannot flee, no one can disturb them either, leaving them safe and warm in their sanctuary.

The wounds slowly heal to scars, ugly ones striping across Loki’s back. Thor does not bring up the conversation about leaving again, but sometimes Loki can read it in the tension of his shoulders, the way he looks at him like he’s about to say something, but remains silent. Loki doesn’t know what he’d say if Thor asked now. Some bitter part of him does want to go. To disappear at the first chance, slip out into the wider world where no one would know them, where they could walk in anonymity. But a greater part still fears leaving home. Not just because he fears what fate may await them, not just out of stubbornness, but also because he fears losing what’s theirs. Fears losing that connection to the land, to the woods he walks at night, to the fields where for generations their rituals have been performed. There’s something here, something not easily taken with them.

So when Thor looks like he’s gathering the fortitude to bring it up again, Loki distracts him, asking a question about something trivial to force the conversation away. Fine lines of tension remain around Thor’s eyes, but Loki says nothing.

On the first warm day of spring, Loki sits on the steps, not far from the safety of inside. Thor isn’t far either, tilling the fields and clearing the debris of an early spring storm. As the sun warms his face, Loki raises a hand and calls the faintest bit of magic into his hand. It sparks at his fingertips like a faint candle flame.

He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> I.......have no excuses for this. 
> 
> Though, this _was_ a lot more what I thought I'd come up with for the Bad Things Happen Bingo. (The previous ones I've completed have been...uncharacteristically soft.) 
> 
> As I said at the start, the setting is....what I'm calling 'the vague Medieval-ish Fantasy AU.' Some inspiration for this particular fic came from two sources, _The Faithful Executioner: Life and Death, Honor and Shame in the Turbulent Sixteenth Century_ by Joel F. Harrington and _The Last Duel: A True Story of Crime, Scandal, and Trial by Combat in Medieval France_ by Eric Jager. I do actually have an idea for another fic in this setting - bringing in some other notable characters, and getting into the politics of the wider world. (Though, it's going to involve actually doing some real world-building lol)
> 
> Kudos/Comments/Frogs always appreciated! [Come say hi on tumblr if you want](https://bereft-of-frogs.tumblr.com/). ;-)


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